


silver and emerald

by 0shadow_panther0



Series: the moon follows the earth [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Engagement, F/M, Family Shenanigans, Meeting the Parents, Wedding Planning, the golden deer plan a wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:29:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22467907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0shadow_panther0/pseuds/0shadow_panther0
Summary: Planning a wedding is all fun and games... until you get to the planning part.Or, apparently, everyone is busy—except for Claude.
Relationships: Golden Deer Students & Claude von Riegan, My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Series: the moon follows the earth [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615726
Comments: 5
Kudos: 182





	silver and emerald

Claude has been listening to Lorenz for the better part of the hour, but it feels like the day has already come and gone with how long he’s been sitting across from his friend expound on the intricacies of wedding planning and how, truly, only a noble of the house of Gloucester would have an eye for the preparations.

“Food will be prepared by Raphael, of course, as well as his sister. Leonie will be providing game for them, and Lysithea and Cyril will oversee to ensure that an appropriate amount of cuisine from both cultures will be offered. Marianne has offered to gather and train some doves for the ceremony, and I have commissioned Ignatz for a painting of the scene, while Hilda has offered her talents to—“

“Lorenz,” Claude interrupts, “you lost me at doves.”

Lorenz draws himself up with a haughty puff. “You should be taking this more seriously. These nuptials—“ Claude makes a face— “will be the face the union between Almyra and Fódlan, a representation of mutual peace for years to come—”

“Right,” Claude sighs. As much as he’s marrying for love, his life is a political game, and that includes his wedding—it _has_ to be a spectacle. For the _people_. It’s fair, he supposes, for the union of two rulers, but… he wishes it could be otherwise.

Lorenz’s expression softens. “And,” he says, “it is the wedding of two of our dearest friends. _That_ is why it must be perfect.”

Claude allows a smile and claps him on the shoulder. “No doves,” he says firmly. “I don’t want any evacuated bowels on my very important guests.”

* * *

“Wyverns from the north!” a sentry calls, and Claude and Byleth are at the battlements before the rest of the guards have scrambled into position, tea abandoned in the castle garden’s gazebo.

“Spyglass,” Claude barks, hand extended, and a sentry practically flings their glass at him. He brings it to his eye, focusing on the flock of wyverns on the horizon.

He pales. He recognizes the crest emblazoned on the armor of the mounts just as clearly as the riders. “Oh no.”

“Claude?” Byleth says quietly, but he shakes his head.

“Stand down!” he orders, ignoring the confused murmurs as the guards shuffle to obey.

He’s buffeted by the wind as the wyverns glide down to land along the ramparts, the Almyran emblem stamped proudly on their bronze chest plates.

“...Mother,” he greets weakly, “Father, good to see you—” and Byleth’s eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline.

The former Duchess Riegan and King of Almyra dismount gracefully, looking for too smug for a simple visit.

“Claude,” his father booms, arms held wide. “Did you think that we could not come for your wedding?”

“I expected you at the _wedding_ ,” Claude replies, face reddening against his will, “which isn’t for another three weeks.”

Byleth blinks, visibly bewildered, but, to her credit, recovers quickly and bows. “Your Majesties,” she murmurs.

Out of the corner of his eye he notices how Byleth is observing his parents, marking the similarities. He knows he has his mother’s eyes, his father’s half-curls, the tone of his skin firmly in between them.

His mother waves her hand. “Enough formalities,” she says, “just Tiana is fine. We’re not here for politics, we’re here to visit our dear son’s future bride.”

Byleth flusters, glancing at him, and Claude can only offer a helpless shrug.

“In our culture, we would have met you long before the wedding,” his father comments, “although considering the circumstances, we can hardly can this conventional—“ He cuts off abruptly as Tiana elbows him in the ribs.

“Don’t blame our son’s idiocy on the whole country, Bahram,” she says.

“ _Mother_ ,” Claude manages, stifling a groan.

She grins crookedly at him before turning to drape an arm over Byleth, who, Claude notes with mounting horror, goes pink.

“It’s been many years since I’ve set foot in Fódlan,” Tiana says, steering her away from the men. “Why don’t you remind me of Leicester hospitality?”

Claude makes a strangled noise. “Is my _mother_ trying to seduce my wife?”

Bahram strokes his beard thoughtfully. “I think the question you want to ask _is_ not is she, but how successfully she’s doing it.”

Claude points at him. “ _Don’t_ ,” he says, with feeling.

* * *

His mother and father all but banish him from their immediate presence and hog Byleth all to themselves (with a rather ominous warning not to even dare approach them for the next couple days), claiming to be “making up for lost time” and “he should have introduced them earlier, so it’s his fault really.”

And so, with his wedding being planned by Lorenz Hellman Gloucester and his fiancee imprisoned by his family, he escapes his entourage of guards and wanders around the palace.

Derdriu’s royal palace hasn’t changed much in his years away, still the bustling seaside castle that he remembers from his teenage years. He makes his way to the outskirts of the grounds, where carts make their through the main gates.

He grins when he recognizes an odd pair, loading a small cart with hunting supplies and weapons.

“Leonie, Raphael!” Claude calls with a jaunty wave. “You guys going hunting? Think you could use a third? Just like old times, huh?”

“Nuh-uh,” Leonie says, shooing him away. “No way. I’m getting paid by the pound, so I’m absolutely not letting any competition get in my way.”

He musters a hurt expression. “You’d choose money over spending time with your dear former house leader?”

“Yes.”

“We’re feeding a lot of people,” Raphael says proudly. “The money is gonna be _really_ good.”

“What with the crown footing the bill and all,” Leonie chimes, sending him a meaningful look.

Claude raises his hands placatingly. “I know when I’m not wanted,” he says. “I’ll bow out gracefully.”

* * *

Marianne is sitting on the grass in the gardens, birds perched on her head and shoulders. Most fly away as he approaches, but one dove only opens a baleful eye before nestling more comfortably in her hair.

“Ah, Claude,” Marianne says as he waves a greeting.

“And how are you doing on this fine day?” he asks, settling onto the grass beside her.

There’s a beat of silence. “My adopted father thinks I should give a speech at the wedding,” she mumbles.

Claude’s eyebrows rise. “Huh,” he says. “Well, Margrave Edmund is known for speaking.”

Marianne fidgets, and the dove coos unhappily at being disturbed.

Claude hums thoughtfully. “Do _you_ want to give a speech?”

She hesitates. “You and the professor are… very important to me,” she says haltingly. “I want to do something for you.”

He sets a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You’d be doing enough just by being there,” he says.

Marianne meets his eyes. There’s a determined gleam that wasn’t there before.

She rises, dusting off her skirts. “I think… I’ll return to Edmund territory,” she says, “just for a little while. I’ll need advice. I want—“ she manages a smile, eyes soft. “I want to get it right.”

“You’ll be taking Dorte back, I trust?” he replies lightly.

Marianne laughs softly. “Of course.”

* * *

The sun is pleasantly warm, and, having skipped lunch in favor of avoiding the royal guard, Claude decides to drop by the kitchens to see if he can sneak a snack or two from the chefs.

When he gets there, there’s a set of familiar voices drifting through the door, and he pauses to listen.

“You can’t make the whole menu cakes,” Cyril is saying patiently. “People will get sick.”

“It’s not _all_ cakes,” Lysithea replies, obviously defensive. “There are… some salads.”

“Did someone say ‘cake?’” Claude says airily, breezing in. “Anything I can taste-test?”

“Claude?” they say at the same time, which he finds adorable, and he cranks the charm up as he sends them a dashing smile.

“Did you save any delicious snacks for your beloved house leader?” he says, eyeing the bowls of cream and platters of fruit scattered after the tables.

“Bane of my academic career, you mean,” Lysithea mutters darkly. Then, louder, “No, we’re still working on the menu, so if you’re not going to help, you should leave so you’re not a distraction.” Beside her, Cyril nods sagely.

Claude sighs mournfully, turning away—but not before grabbing up a handful of strawberries and scooping a dollop of cream with his fingers, snickering at Lysithea’s squawk as he makes his escape.

* * *

He passes by Ignatz at the cathedral as the artist scrutinizes the venue with a critical eye. There’s a canvas in front of him, swathes of color mixed on a palette in his lap.

“Ignatz! Painting already?”

The man in question squeaks, fumbling with the palette and nearly overturning it as he jolts. “Claude—! I—I mean, Your Majesty—!”

“Aw, none of that, Ignatz. Friends don’t need formalities.”

Ignatz flushes a little, sputtering. “S—still, it would only be polite.”

“Then save the titles for public affairs. If it’s just the two of us, first names are fine, yeah?”

Ignatz bobs his head. “Of course, Your Ma—ah, Claude.”

Claude restrains a snicker. “Anyway, I just wanted to drop by and catch up. How’re you doing?”

“Oh!” Ignatz says, turning back to his canvas. “I figured that I could get a base for the background done now, so I only have to focus on painting figures later.”

Claude smiles. The way that Ignatz brightens when he talks about art is infectious. Privately, Claude thanks Lorenz for encouraging Ignatz’s artistic talents—Goddess knows the Victor family wouldn’t.

“Lorenz is keeping you busy, then? ‘Artist knight’ and all that?”

Ignatz reddens even further, fiddling with his glasses, and Claude laughs, patting him on the back. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Best of luck to you.”

* * *

It’s been almost a week of his parent’s imposed banishment when he risks a visit to Hilda’s room, who Lorenz said was in charge of Byleth’s wedding gown.

He knocks on the door, ears straining for the rustle of fabric and a muffled, “Just a minute!”

Hilda’s familiar pink head bobs into view as she opens the door, peeking out. “Claude? What are you doing here?”

“Claude’s here?” Byleth says distantly.

Claude makes his eyes as wide and pleading as he can. “My parents wouldn’t even let me _near_ Teach all week—this is as close as I’ve gotten in days,” he wheedles. “Can I hang around while you fit her for her dress?”

“No way! You’re not even supposed to see her in her dress before the wedding, anyway—it’s bad luck.”

“Hilda,” Byleth calls, “I can’t breathe in this.”

Claude struggles to keep a straight face. “See? She can’t _breathe_ in it. Now, it’s my duty as her future husband to help her out of it so she’ll remain un-asphyxiated for our wedding—”

Hilda points at him. “Absolutely not.”

“Hilda?”

“Just a sec, Professor! I’m trying to get rid of your fiancee.”

Claude grimaces. “You don’t need to call her ‘Professor’ anymore,” he says. “Actually, I’d prefer if you didn’t. It makes me feel like this is all an elaborate roleplay.”

“You still call her ‘Teach,’” she points out.

“And I’m the one marrying her. No need to involve _others_ in my elaborate roleplay.”

Hilda arches a brow, mouth opening for a retort, but they both go very still when the sound of ripping fabric echoes in the hall, followed by a very quiet, “Ah.”

The sound Hilda makes is barely short of a squawk, and Claude decides to make himself scarce before he becomes a witness to a crime.

* * *

He’s half-asleep over some treatise—(good to know that Almyra and Fódlan have at least one thing in common—petty nobles)—when a knock on the door jolts him back to attention.

“Come in,” he calls absentmindedly, shuffling papers together and wincing when he notices a spot of drool on his desk, surreptitiously wiping it with his sleeve as the door opens.

The familiar aroma of Almyran pine wafting his way makes him look up, eyes widening before his face breaks out into a smile. “Finally escaped my parents, I see.”

Byleth huffs, straightening her tray of tea before kicking the door shut behind her. “They were wonderful,” she says, perfectly poker-faced.

Claude arches a brow. “They asked you about grandkids, didn’t they?”

Her facade crumbles, her cheeks glowing pink. “Your father did. Tiana punched him, though.”

He laughs, rising to take the tray from her and setting it on his desk so he can sweep her into his arms, kissing her deeply. “I can’t believe I see you less now that we live in the same castle,” he murmurs against her lips, eyes fluttering shut as her warmth seeps into him.

She hums, rising to her tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his brow. “We can make up for lost time later,” she says. “I think poor Lorenz is more stressed about our wedding than we are.”

“Don’t pity him,” Claude scoffs, even as he grins and takes her hands, leading her in a mock-dance. “He took on the responsibility himself. It’s practically his wedding by now, anyway.”

Byleth lets out an undignified snort, glancing back at his desk as he dips her low enough that her hair brushes against the floor.

“Tea,” she says, entirely unruffled. “It’ll get cold.”

“Will it, now?” he replies, pulling her upright.

She reaches up and pinches his cheek. “Yes.”

He pouts and releases her, stepping back so she can pour their tea.

The fragrant steam wafts his way, and he wanders closer, resting his chin on her shoulder as he watches her mix spoonfuls of honey into their cups.

“A little more for me, please,” he says, nosing her hair and pressing a kiss to the shell of her ear.

She hums in response, adding another dollop before bringing the spoon up to lick up the last of the honey.

He reaches around her for his cup, taking a long, slow sip, the bittersweet mixture of pine and honey heady on his tongue. Byleth moves to take a seat on his chair, and he reluctantly lets her go, slumping into the armchair next to his desk.

Byleth takes a measured sip, eyes fluttering shut, and they bask in the simple calm together, savoring their tea and the warm quiet.

Claude sets his empty cup aside and props his chin in his hand, staring at her with open adoration. “I love you,” he says.

Byleth huffs, a soft smile gracing her mouth. “And I love you,” she replies simply.


End file.
